


The Reluctant Heiress

by SecretReyloTrash (BadOldWest)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Basically Rey has to un-train Kylo because Snoke Did A Number On Him, Bisexual Kylo Ren, Erotic Art Therapy Let's Make It a Thing, F/M, Femdom, Humiliation, Inappropriate Use of Crayola, Kylo is Sugar Baby, Master/Pet, Mildly Dark Rey but she's a good person, PWP, Rey Palpatine, Rey is the Sugar Daddy, Snoke is Kylo's Former Sugar Daddy, Sugar Daddy, Teasing, Undernegotiated Kink, domme rey, sub kylo ren, what are feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25426468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadOldWest/pseuds/SecretReyloTrash
Summary: “Your last sugar daddy died?”Kylo looks down at his plate, but they’re not alone, intimate, they are in a crowded restaurant and therefore he’s allowed to act like a normal date.He nods as he takes a sip of wine, still not looking at her.“He was very old.”Rey is new to this whole sugar daddy thing. Luckily, her baby, Kylo, is well trained by his last daddy.A little too well trained.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 62
Kudos: 504





	The Reluctant Heiress

**Author's Note:**

> So after heart-shaped sunglasses, my embarrassingly sincere tribute to the trope I can't get enough of, I got a few requests for sugar daddy Rey. I don't know why soft boytoy Kylo needing a gentle hand after Snoke was where I went with it, but I refuse to face judgement for my crimes.

He’s so good.

At being a plaything, the perfect submissive. At doing whatever she asks. At keeping his eyes on the floor unless she guides them to her. 

Too good. 

Rey clears her throat as she looks at Kylo on the floor of her bedroom. He’s on his knees, hands folded neatly behind his back. He doesn’t look at her: almost as if he doesn’t deserve to. Like whatever’s going on in that head, whatever he needs, it’s completely controlled. 

When she points to her feet he crawls there without shame. It’s so easy. All she has to do is hike her leg up over one of his massive shoulders from her seat on the bed and he’ll feast on her until she tells him to stop. 

Even if that takes hours. 

And it’s...really that easy. He’s really that good. 

Which is fine.

Just a _little—_

She just thought that _maybe—_

Even his breath is controlled as he kneels at her feet. She realizes he hasn’t moved because she hasn’t given him an order yet. He’s so obedient he really will sit that still until she does. 

She waits for a long time. Hoping he’ll fidget, and clear his throat, and maybe shyly glance up at her. That she can unnerve him. Test his limits. 

But she breaks before he does, because it’s like all the air leaves the room when he hangs his head from his spot on the floor. He is so massive, when she first met him she took utter delight in wondering how she was going to get him, this big baby, to do whatever she wanted in bed with her. 

He looked wild. Rowdy. From the moment she saw him she was making plans for how to tame him.

He never even made her have to work that hard to do what she wanted.

And she can’t quite put her finger on why that’s driving her _nuts._

They’re both perfectly still as she stares down at him in awe.

This is one of those first-world problems, isn’t it?

* * *

Rey fans a wad of bills between his giant pectorals. 

The giant picture window along her bed has her high and powerful before the city below: mounted on him makes her feel at the absolute top of it all.

“Is this what you want, baby?”

She bends at the neck to kiss his left nipple, then his right. She’s still got her hands on the base of the bills, and she flicks them against his sternum.

“Yes, Master.”

She tries not to make a face.

They haven’t found a name she likes yet. And this one only goes so far when she can’t do much to make him flinch. She can tug his hair, scratch his gorgeous skin, and brutally spank him: but there’s no breaking him. Even mocking him with the money she gives him, money she can’t think of anything better to do with, doesn’t break the serene surface he keeps up around her. 

It’s like he can’t be humiliated by his want for her. 

She swings the leg she has dangling off the edge of the bed, looking down at her tan thigh where it’s thrown over his massive torso. 

She’s running out of ideas. 

“Do you like that?” Rey adds weakly, hating the doubt creeping in her voice. The money slaps against his bare chest again.

Kylo blinks up at her for a moment.

“Yes, Master. So much.”

And there’s a little more feeling in his voice. 

He doesn’t usually pause before answering. His...training...is too good. But he hesitated this time.

She tosses the cash aside and creeps down his body on her knees. His cock is hard: he is always hard when she needs him to be. But that in itself strikes her as suspicious. 

Her hand wraps around it but it’s not a caress. She holds him like a scepter. 

Ready. And hard. And obedient. 

These are all good things. 

Rey sighs with frustration and swings a leg back over his hips before she sinks her body down. Usually she tries to play with him more. She isn’t as wet as usual, and the downward slide halts in the wrong place. She grunts and twists her hips. 

Kylo always waits for her, he never questions her, he is the perfect submissive. 

So when he sits up of his own accord and his hands close around her waist, her eyes shoot up to his in pure shock.

“Please, Master,” he whispers softly, his eyes bowed as if to still show respect, “it’s my job to make you happy.”

He says it like he can’t help it. Rey grits her jaw and nods as he moves his hips underneath her. 

She lets out a stunned gurgle when his thumb pets her clit in soft, up-and-down strokes. Her eyes roll back and her head bobs. Her face goes red as she squirms. It feels so good, to have him already inside, making her sore, and to then have the wetness he stimulated out of her to creep down the length of his cock to her entrance. 

It feels good.

But not in the way she can control.

* * *

He’s been acting weird since last time. 

Agitated. He doesn’t assume a position ten feet away from her for her to survey and command. He comes to her feet like a dog and huffs out a little sad breath. 

It’d be delicate if it weren’t for the sheer size of him. 

“What do you want?” She blurts out roughly, her nose wrinkling in surprise. 

“Please, Master, I want to be...good.”

Rey blanches at this. She almost sputters in disbelief. He’s _too_ good and now he’s folded over at her feet looking for a way to be better. He’s like a little teacher’s pet still asking questions as they pack up their folders at the end of class. 

He holds his bow with every muscle locked. He’s practically vibrating. Working so much harder than normal: and he’s no slouch. 

_What could be the reason?_

Her voice flattens.

“Do you need something?”

_Does he owe someone money or something? Is he looking for a favor?_

He can crawl over to her purse and hand her the checkbook if he needs it: instead of pretending this is about what she really deserves. There’s honesty in supplying a need. 

She can pull his head in her lap and use his cheek as a flat surface to sign her name on a blank check if this is what that’s about. Simple. All he has to do is ask, and he’s not asking for anything.

 _“No,”_ he glances up at her earnestly, “just you.”

It’s a little dizzying to hear when he’s on his knees looking like she’s the center of the universe. 

“And to know…” he ducks his head again, “if I deserve it...that you’re pleased with me.”

“You haven’t given me a reason to be displeased,” she answers carefully, and a huge _but_ hangs unsaid in the air. 

“Rey—” he says suddenly, urgently, and she panics, because _this is not the scene anymore,_ “—I need you.”

He does something unexpected: which is a first. Usually he exists at a neutral and obeys her. Nothing surprises her. He’s too good.

So it’s like the world comes crashing down when he puts his head in her lap and cries. 

* * *

“Your last sugar daddy _died?”_

Kylo looks down at his plate, but they’re not alone, intimate, they are in a crowded restaurant and therefore he’s allowed to act like a normal date. 

He nods as he takes a sip of wine, still not looking at her. 

“He was very old.”

She cradles her glass in her hand, her mouth hanging open. 

“You poor thing,” she says finally. 

His nostrils flare for a moment and he doesn’t seem to know to nod or shake his head. But she sees him feel from those words by how his chest caves in a little bit. 

Rey isn’t sure what to do in this situation. 

Especially when she held his sobbing head in her lap while he broke to pieces in ways she never could produce. It was followed by the world's most emotionally fraught shopping trip: Rey dragging him by the hand into whatever store she could think of, holding pretty things in his face, her credit card still hot from all the frantic swipes from her purchases to appease him. This is what she provided: and it wasn’t working. She didn’t even think to talk about the problem until she asked him if he needed anything to eat. 

She isn’t sure he’d exactly mourn her if something happened to her: but these things are hard to tell. He seems pretty torn up about it. Maybe he did have feelings. Maybe—

_—well this is a weird thought—_

—he wasn’t over the last time he was doing this.

“Do you miss him? Did you guys have an...affectionate relationship?”

“No,” Kylo shakes his head, glancing up at her with so much surety in his eyes she’s a little startled. “I was just very dependent on him. I didn’t know what to do with myself when he was gone. I felt like I wasn’t allowed to eat, sleep, or sit down without his permission. When he wasn’t there to give it, I was lost.”

“Oh,” now she can’t look at him, “that sounds...really bad.”

He shrugs.

The first moment she saw him comes back all at once. Everyone was a stranger to her in the receiving line of Sheev Palpatine’s funeral, and plenty were waiting to strike with her inheritance looming. His face was the first one that seemed friendly. Large, vulnerable eyes. Not kind, but childish, somehow, it made her feel drawn to him.

His soft, quiet voice offering her condolences that seemed to sprout from a dark depth, like a flower growing out of a cave that had never saw light.

“So,” she leans her hand on her cheek, “that’s how you ended up with an heiress who very unexpectedly received more money than God when her grandfather died?”

He nods his head, but his eyes are earnest:

“I am very lucky to have you, Rey. You’re very kind to me.”

That’s it. She’s utterly failed. 

Nobody wants to Domme just to be considered _kind._

“Uh, Kylo,” she feels intensely rejected by this. Her inadequacy is ballooning enough to take over this entire restaurant. They weren’t banging for her to hear just how kind she was. “I get the sense you're not into this.”

His eyes go wide. 

She drops her napkin to her lap and straightens up. She’s never gotten a reaction like this out of him.

“What makes you say that?” he breathes, his brow furrowed.

She can’t tell who is more confused. 

“You’re just a little—rigid.”

His lips press together and those big brown eyes, the ones he never lets her see because they’re usually on the floor, look so hurt.

“You don’t like how I am in bed?”

That gorgeous, deep voice is just a light flutter. Damn him for being so utterly delectable. 

_“You’re so skilled,”_ she bites her lip. Which is true. When she throws her head back and orders him to _fuck her_ —it’s an excellent experience. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe I don’t know what _you_ like.”

He blinks at her. Silent. 

“What your kinks are,” she hints, her head tilting at him to listen.

Kylo ripples for a moment like a reflection on disrupted water.

“You’re just _—my baby—”_ Rey shakes her head sadly, “let me take care of my baby.”

* * *

Kylo’s been clammed up for weeks. 

They both hover around each other in a state of agitation. She tries to cancel a few times, but when she alights upon even mentioning that, he panics. 

She’s too soft to do that. Even though they don’t have sex when they meet. It requires creativity to meet up but not have sex. They _see_ each other. 

It’s kind of nice to just date each other for a few days. 

Not having to do things alone.

She can tell from how affectionate he is that he’s trying. Still. He’s not clingy, perhaps because he thinks that’s _being bad._ But he holds _the fuck_ out of her hand whenever she gives it to him to hold.

If he went from one sugar daddy, an old man, to another, Rey, quite the opposite of that: the speed and the vast difference make it clear to her he must really need the money. 

And it’s not really her money. It’s her grandfather’s. She didn’t know the man enough in his life, but she hasn’t liked what she’s seen. It’s a gross enough thought that she’s fine with flinging the money away at charity cases. She’s too unorganized to find the best places to give it, the charity world she’s been thrust into is too ostentatious. So now it’s just giving it over to whoever tugs at her heart. Waitresses. Animal Shelters. Giant men who want so badly to be good. 

Ever since she first saw him, maybe even in the way he presented himself to him, she had to have him. Rey wasn’t used to having things, even now, so it’s a lot of responsibility that she has him.

She imagines a million tasks for him to gain just an ounce of tension but it just ends the same way. Limitless power. It’s like how she can’t look at her bank balance and wonder how much poverty it takes to cancel out her wealth.

He’s just not good at expressing himself.

It’s impulsive, at first, trying to think of ways to get him uncomfortable without exhausting the limits of what’s achievable. It’s like a stroke of genius she has on the train home one evening. The most brilliant and stupid idea she’s ever had. 

She hops into the nearest drugstore before she can talk herself out of it. It has to be tonight, in her apartment, because she will talk herself out of it. There’s a cheeky grin on her face she can’t wipe off. It stays there until she opens the door when he arrives.

He blinks at her when she answers the door, a little smile flickering across his own face to see her so happy to see him.

His smile fades when she walks him from the entryway of her apartment to her living room and dumps out a shopping bag full of markers and crayons onto the carpet. 

Now he looks completely lost. He swallows and looks at the mess on the floor, and then glances up nervously at her face. 

Rey settles into her favorite chair, where she’s set herself aside a glass of wine. 

This gorgeous, perfect man stands awkwardly at the edge of the room while she takes a sip. Waiting for instructions.

“I want you to draw for me,” she tilts her head back to look at him.

Those big hands fidget nervously at his sides. His breath almost whines in his throat, his eyes tearing away from her. It’s like she asked him to pick up a gun and shoot himself in the foot in front of her.

“I’m not very good at it,” he says carefully, not a _no_ but a deflection. He’s unsure. 

He is so, so obedient that the evasion makes her jaws snap into his vulnerability.

He’s not embarrassed any way she wants him to get naked, fuck her, or fuck himself. He can perform these tasks without batting an eye. This poor thing was blushing because she was making him paint her a fucking picture.

She points her foot at the spot on the floor in the nest of supplies. Usually she is very soft with him. Telling him how to position himself, usually so she can ride him, and telling him it’s all good. 

“You don’t have to be good at it. Now do as you’re told.”

Kylo breathes for a moment like he’s actually dizzy by the request. Then he gets down at her feet and shakily picks up the notepad. 

“What should I draw, Master?”

Rey’s brow twists in interest at the question. 

“Draw you and me, baby.”

His fist tightens around the marker in his hand. 

“What if it isn’t good?”

“I want you to try your very hardest at it,” she says instead of answering, “make me proud.”

Kylo actually whines for a moment before uncapping the black marker. 

She _tsssks_ , leaning back in her chair. 

“I bought you all these pretty colors…”

He drops the marker he was holding and scrambles to pick up half a rainbow: a lavender, scarlet, and a couple greens stick out from his clutches. 

_“But my hair,”_ he says suddenly, mournful of the cast-aside black marker, and then he flinches at his own brattiness.

Rey’s mouth drops open. 

_Finally._

Kylo never complains. He never gives her a hard time. He was the self-driving car of submissives, and now it finally felt like she was accelerating. 

She reaches for him and twists a lock around her fingers. 

“I guess you’re right.”

Then he yelps when she yanks around on the curl in her hand, tugging his head back to look at her.

“Your pretty hair is all black. What other colors do we make?”

Kylo shivers at her feet. 

“Pink. Master’s pussy is pink.”

Rey’s lips curl in a smile and she nods as she sips her wine. 

“Start drawing.”

He obeys. His hands are shaking as he uncaps a pink marker. They both seem to know this isn’t going to be good, only vulgar, but he seems to know what he wants to show than she does. Two pink points for her chest, then something flatter and more mannish for his. She likes that he drew the same parts of them first. Their nipples. It's weirdly satisfying, sweet even, to see them as dots on a page with no other meaning to anyone else in the world. 

He creates the twisting line of her spine, the solid bulk of his chest with black marker. Colors or not, he actually has elegant hands when he moves the ink across the paper. This is more fun than she anticipated. Beyond embarrassing him. He’s making her wet. 

Suddenly his hand falters and he shields his paper.

_“Don’t look.”_

She nudges her foot against the crook of his hip. He twists and the ball of her foot rides his hip bone down his front, nudging his cock. 

_Fuck. He’s so hard._

He’s sitting criss-cross at her feet in order to fit in this spot, hunched over his drawing, but he groans and lets her rub him a little. 

“Don’t stop or I’ll make you do this naked.”

Kylo’s eyes fly open. With his face very red, he stares at her. Pushing up his hips to feel the arch of her foot run along his length. She raises her eyebrows, daring him to try her. 

“Don’t be a brat,” she warns.

But every nerve of her body is one fire with one want:

_Please be a brat. Feel safe. Be comfortable with me._

He flings the notepad and marker aside and sits there empty-handed. 

Rey swallows her shock and takes her foot away from his groin. 

He has to commit to his defiance for longer than she thinks he can handle. His nostrils flare as he looks up at her. Her questioned authority a big fucking elephant in the room. 

She sits back in her plush chair. 

“Stand up.”

Kylo’s eyes are wild with excitement and he stands. She yanks on his belt first. Unzips his trousers. Pulls mindlessly at buttons and seams until his clothes are peeling off of him. He grasps at his own garments, pulling them off his body, until he stands at her feet. Naked and huge. And _hard._

It takes everything in her to not lick at the cream gathering at his tip. He doesn’t deserve it yet.

“Turn around.”

He’s spinning before she gets the full sentence out. 

He _wants_ to be punished. 

“Get on your knees with your ass in the air.”

He goes down like a demolition. The room shakes when he lands on his knees, his cheek pressed to the carpet, an uncapped scarlet marker painting a stripe across his cheek. 

His eye meets hers and there’s such a tranquility in them when she whips her palm as hard as she can against the flesh of his ass. 

_“Unhh.”_

He flinches and those beautiful brown eyes flutter shut. His hips buck and she can see the way his cock bobs against his stomach that he wants this. She straightens up in her seat and plants her feet on the floor and spanks him again. 

Another perfect moan like a ripe peach falls from his lips. She feels wired and alive. His naked back straining to offer himself up to her. His face twisted in ecstasy even as he shoves it into the floor. The little twisty scribble that’s now spanning his entire cheek from the marker he didn’t cap; messy thing. 

She slaps him one more time on the ass and sits back. 

He wants more. 

But this isn’t about what he wants. 

Rey takes another sip of her wine just to stall. The wait pains him. He has his ass in the air, waiting for her, and she’s just enjoying her drink. 

“What other colors can we make?”

He lets out a hopeless little moan. 

She reaches between his legs and strokes her fingertip down the length of his cock, starting first under where his balls hang between his legs to the glans. 

“Red,” she suggests, wrapping her hand roughly around his length. Very red. Flushed.

A few thoughtful strokes have him frantically nodding. Then she lets him go.

She slaps his ass once more. 

“Purple?”

It’s nowhere near it yet: but she likes the challenge. Bruising to blue, green, yellow. A starburst across his cheek. 

He whines and pushes his hips practically into her lap. 

She sits back again with a look of contempt on her face. 

“Now pick up your things and finish your work.”

He scrambles across the floor for his paper and a marker and his hands fly across the page. It’s like a figure-drawing class turned on its head: he’s naked and being observed, but he’s also doing the drawing for the person in clothes. 

This is an abstract vision for sure. 

“Yes, Master.”

She knows vaguely how this is who she’s become. An old man she didn’t meet until he was on his deathbed left her a lot of money. At the funeral, this beautiful creature softly bid her his condolences, unable to meet her eyes, and offered to meet her for coffee. Upon sitting down in the cafe: he told her what he was. 

And with all that money she now had from the old man: she wanted whatever he was. 

“Why do you call me that?”

“Because you’re my Master,” he whines it like he can’t breathe.

She sets her hands on his shoulders, and then guides them to stroke the planes of his chest. 

“Why do you need a Master, naughty boy?”

“To take care of me,” he whispers, she sees his hand seize up on the marker.

She lets that rest in silence for a moment. Then she swallows.

When did she get out of breath?

“Show me your pretty picture.”

He fans his hand protectively over the drawing.

“It’s not done.”

“I don’t care.”

His hands tremble when he puts the notepad on her lap. He looks away, at the window across the room. Shy again. 

She grasps his chin before she can give her attention to his drawing, drawing his eyes to her. 

“I want you to look at me,” she squeezes his jaw in her fingers, _“always._ I want you to look at me like you can’t look away.”

He nods frantically, even trapped in his grasp, his gleaming eyes locked on her face. 

She sits back and lifts up the page to examine his work.

 _“Very good,”_ she praises the scribble. 

It’s not. It’s what he managed with shaking hands, lots of overlapping lines to imply an embrace. Skill isn’t important. He made it for her. He let her look at it. 

He let himself be embarrassed. Not trained into some blank subservience. 

She touches her fingers to the page and traces it as lovingly as a mother would a child’s drawing. 

“I love it,” she tells him honestly, cupping his cheek. 

He nods up at her, those eyes are so big and hopeful. When she sets the drawing in a safe place and stands before him, the hope only grows. 

She pushes him back and crouches over his bare lap. He eases slowly, smooth as silk, when she presses him down onto the floor.

“Hold still,” she orders as he wiggles. The wiggling does not cease. He’s so bad. It’s wonderful. “You’re gonna make a mess.”

She uncaps a dark purple marker with her teeth and spits the cap across the room. Careless. It’s fine: they’re for kids. Safe, washable, and non-toxic. 

Across his hard, quivering abdomen, she scrawls her name. 

**Rey.**

And his chest. His throat. His thigh. She pushes one of his knees up to his chest to label his ass cheek with her name with a possessive passive-aggression like he’s her tupperware in a shared break room fridge. She holds his cock in her palm and squirms the wet tip of the marker down the length of it. Ink gushes out from how hard she presses. 

**Mine.**

Kylo writhes underneath her, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he pants and begs. She’s not destroying her work. She’s the Master now. He’s going to have to wash off every little spot she’s marked him long after he’s left her place tonight.

This will not be ambiguous. 

She casts a loathsome glance at his cock, which seems embarrassingly swollen against his stomach. She tickles her finger just under the head. 

“Cum,” she orders coldly. 

He does. Like a rocket. It’s amazing that all it took was a touch and an order. He’s still, at his core, the most obedient thing she’s ever seen. Cum sprays his marked-up belly and chest, smearing the lines all over him. 

She doesn’t even flinch when it lashes her cheek and drips down her jaw.

Rey watches him twist while his hips jerk up until he calms.

He’s still begging for her by the time she crawls up his prone body.

She slides her panties off from under her skirt, kneels over his head, and glances down.

“Do you want to?”

His jaw hangs open as he nods frantically. 

Rey has never felt more in control of her destiny than when she lowers her pussy to his eager mouth.

* * *

She doesn’t expect to be roused by a phone call in the middle of the night. 

It’s Kylo. Her heart jumps in her chest when she answers.

“Baby?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s crying. 

Rey sits straight up in bed and sets her feet on the floor, hanging off the edge like she’s going to start walking to him. Oh no. She fucked up. She pushed him too hard and ruined him…

“Master…”

“Yes?” she tries to keep her voice soothing, because his voice is longing, and her heart is about to seize a hole through her ribcage. 

“I masturbated.”

Her throat constricts and her whole face screws up in confusion. For a moment it sounded like he was going to tell her he needed help hiding a body. 

“What?” her tongue is dry. 

“I went home and got undressed and I touched what’s yours.”

Her head swims for a moment. This is so much power.

It’s awesome. 

She swallows, suddenly her dry mouth salivating voraciously, and lowers her voice:

“Tell me what you did.”

The sound he makes is clear he is trying very hard not to touch himself again.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I stroked my cock. The one with your name on it. It got—all _smudged.”_

Her eyes nearly roll back in her head. He didn't even wash himself off first. 

He doesn’t sound hopeless, he sounds like he needs hope, and he has enough to look for it from her. Not the resigned, stone-faced man who used to kneel on her floor. 

She cups herself: still wet from thinking about this evening. How she rode his face until her voice was hoarse. How she still wants to cum. She _needs_ him.

That hits her like a slap. She reels from the blow for a moment of stunned silence. 

She needs him. 

Her hand slides over her sex: succumbing to it. He’s hers. 

And she is his Master. 

She could not be more pleased.

“Baby,” she hisses, letting all the breath she was holding deflate from her chest in a slow, satisfied press, “that’s very, very bad.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's trash, your honor.


End file.
